A Sorta Sad Story
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: Just a series of 16 short snippets examining the relationship between John and Sherlock through their lives over time, beginning from the time they met. An experiment, as usual. The intent was to write something poignantly sad. Not sure if it succeeded. Feedback appreciated. Posted as miniature chapters because my attention span is limited these days.
1. Ch 1: Heroes & Courage

**A/N: I wanted to write a sad story. This is the result of that desire - plus a few too many grey days, too many good-byes, and listening far too often to Les Friction (Save Your Life & World on Fire). Please help me improve by giving me suggestions that can make this sadder and more poignant. For example, what might make the reader identify more with the characters? What bits touch your heart? What parts sound flat or out of character? All thoughts, opinions, and suggestions will be most appreciated.**

Thank you, **mrspencil**, for letting me utilise your poem, **Legacies, **in this story (it will show up in chapter 3). Please check out her other writings. Highly recommended!

Disclaimer: Don't own; don't make any monetary profit; etc. Not beta'd or britpicked so all mistakes my own. The usage of proper British swear words still eludes me.

* * *

Chapter 1: Heroes and Courage

_"Courage is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point, which means at the point of highest reality. "_

_― C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters_

"John, there are no heroes in the world; and, if there were I would not be one of them!"

But perhaps Sherlock's declaration wasn't quite true. After my story, perhaps, you'll agree. Perhaps there are heroes, everyday heroes – silent, invisible – living and dying all around us? We might call them friends. They shimmer on the great ripples of the ocean of humanity. Gallant glimpses, fleeting shadows that flutter on the winds of change, brushing their beating wings up against us and sending shivers up our spine. Their lives remind us that there are things in this earth that defy human depravity. Against all odds they rise above the selfishness of the masses. Often they pass by without our consciousness. If we're privileged, we might dance on the margins of their essence. It's these hints of greatness that give us courage. Courage to be heroes ourselves. Or at least, to give us hope.

~221b~


	2. Ch 2: Introductions

**Chapter 2: Introductions**

_Are not lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for?"_

_― C.S. Lewis_

John was a soldier, an ex-army officer according to the official records. He was in need of a flat share. He didn't get on with his family. The last thing he needed to deal with were family issues. He'd been wounded in the war. He walked with what his therapist termed a 'psychosomatic limp'. Damn that diagnosis! Didn't she realise it wasn't that easy to stop the searing pain that shot through his leg every time he put his full weight on it? It wasn't like he wanted a psychosomatic limp. If he could turn off the pain through sheer willpower, didn't his therapist think he would? Curses to psychiatry! More labels. He was just a man without a job, without a purpose, lost and without an identity. He needed someone to split the rent fee because his pitiable army pension wasn't sufficient to cover the costs in London.

Sherlock was young and alone. He was sharp. His thin frame served to reinforce his image as a scathingly sarcastic, self-assured scientist more interested in cutting edge technology than people. His upper lip had a bad habit of curling up involuntarily in a look of disdain when he thought about all the idiots that he had to endure. For his part, he had trained himself to remain detached from the common rabble. Alone protected him. He took his vows early and married himself wholeheartedly to his work. His dark, unruly curls defied any attempt to tame them; he often didn't bother to dress in anything other than his favourite blue dressing gown unless it was absolutely necessary for purposes of getting to his research laboratory. The tall, lean genius with an IQ off the charts was brilliant. But how smart was he really? He chose to retain the chemical formula of 4-Androstenediol but deleted the formula for friendship.

Was it fate that brought these two opposing forces together? Providence? Coincidence? Does it really matter?

~221b~


	3. Ch 3: Feelings & Connections

A/N: A big thank you to **mrspencil** for letting me include her poem, Legacies, at the beginning of this chapter. (even without knowing how I was going to utilise it in this story!). She has many other excellent poems depicting the relationship b/t the characters in ACD and Sherlock BBC that are more beautifully examined in rhyme than I'll ever be able to write in simple prose.

**Chapter 3: Feelings and Connections**

Legacies (by mrspencil)

Battle weary soldier on a half pay pension,

Limping into London from a far-flung land;

With a legacy of fever,

Bullet wounds and nightmares.

Haunted by the havoc of a brave last stand.

~0~

Solitary student in a scorch marked lab coat,

Staring down a microscope for long, lone days;

With a legacy of logic,

Science and deduction;

Blithely unaware of his eccentric ways.

~0~

Battle weary soldier takes a walk through London,

Meeting an acquaintance from the wards long past;

Promise of a flat share,

Cheap accommodation;

Restful, ordered residence and peace at last.

~0~

Solitary student stuck in dismal quarters,

Hoping to afford a more inviting place;

Promise of the rent halved;

Quiet fellow lodger,

Room to greet the clients who begin each case

~0~

Solitary student faces weary soldier,

Knowing he has suffered in the Empire's name;

Promises are altered,

Legacies confounded;

Neither life, of course, will ever be the same.

~mrspencil

It was dark. He sat with an orange shock blanket draped over his shoulders. A man had been shot dead right in front of him. " I've got nothing to go on." Inspector Lestrade shook his head ruefully as he shuffled around the man seated on the ambulance bench.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Shiny dark curls perked up and an intelligent sharp, chiselled face peered upward toward the confused inspector. "I'd say from the angle of the shot, the timing, the precision – " his habitual deductive logic wheels suddenly ground to a screeching halt. The axis of the universe wobbled momentarily. The budding consulting detective had not felt like this in a long, long time – perhaps never – in his career. His face formed the fleeting letter, 'O'.

He waved his hand dismissively. "Um… ignore everything I just said. It's the shock talking." He left Lestrade scratching his head in confused bemusement.

Sherlock didn't care. He had something much greater to consider. It was foreign – was it really – um, that thing called 'feeling'? It ascended from the centre of his chest, hot and tingling, and crawled upward to his brain. The barrier that separated his heart from his head snapped asunder. Death and numbness slithered away into the darkness while a new light sputtered and finally turned into a steady glow.

Odd. He felt anxious. He was suddenly protective of that dark enigma of humanity called John who stood on the shadows behind the crime scene tape. The man was wounded and flawed. Wasn't he just another of those 'idiots' that cluttered up his existence? He couldn't explain it. Yet, he couldn't deny its existence. . The most unexpected connection ever – perhaps in the entire history of mankind – had just formed.

~221b~


	4. Ch 4: Vulnerable

**A/N: no story can ever adequately do this quote by C.S. Lewis justice. One of my absolute favourite quotes of all time :)**

**Chapter 4: Vulnerable**

_"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."_

_― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves_

Although John's subconsciousness sensed their connection early on, he didn't cognitively choose to fully engage in the friendship with Sherlock until several weeks after their first meeting. It was quite by accident that the full picture came into focus for him.

"Phone," Sherlock, the amazingly brilliant and equally amazingly lazy flatmate demanded, raising his palm to received said device while continuing to peer through his microscope at a particularly menacingly mould sample growing under the toenails of his collection of appendages that Mrs Hudson occasionally discovered, much to her horror, in the fridge.

"Where?" the typically easy-going ex-army soldier replied in mild disgust at Sherlock's unbelievable request. (Did he really want to share a flat with him?).

"Over there. Hurry!" the peeved voice rose a note higher as pale arachnid like fingers waved vaguely in the direction of his bedroom.

"All right. All right!" John scanned the room and determined that the ring was coming from somewhere in the top dresser drawer. He pulled it open a crack wider and reached blindly toward the offending noise. Unexpectedly his hand wrapped around a small bottle of pills. One glance was all he needed to know.

He'd had his suspicions but now he knew for sure. John stifled his dismay. Quickly he replaced the offending bottle and found the ringing mobile. "Coming," he called back to an increasingly impatient detective. He purposefully lengthened his stride and efficiently plopped the phone in the man's outstretched hand. He never spoke of the bottle of pills.

Later, when he was hunched down in his chair watching telly by himself, (Sherlock had taken off for Bart's), the nightmares started, taunting and unbidden. John had never felt quite so scared before. Well, maybe once when he thought he was going to die in Afghanistan. But that fear passed. This one did not. It gnawed at his heart.

Perhaps Mycroft had been correct? Was it bravery or stupidity that caused John to ignore the stormy forecast ahead. He had full disclosure. Yet he chose to risk it all on this uncertain burgeoning stringy tendril of friendship. Although he barely knew the man, he wasn't blind to the consequences. He was a doctor after all. But inexplicably the connection was stronger. He deliberately chose Sherlock and the heartache he was certain his partner's illness would one day bring.

~221b~


	5. Ch 5: Sick & Hurt

**Chapter 5: Sick and Hurt**

_"Peter did not feel very brave; indeed, he felt he was going to be sick. But that made no difference to what he had to do."_

_― C.S. Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia_

Sherlock stood bolt upright near the front door hugging his arms around his skeletal frame. Although never in the best of colour (his pallor and thin frame were oft commented upon among his fans), tonight the detective looked horrible. "I need to go to the hospital." He gave John an expectant nod toward the door.

John was snuggled down in the far corner in his favourite chair, his head nodding as he drifted into the fantasy world of the current crime novel that he was reading. "What?" He sat up abruptly, blinking rapidly. "Now? A new case?"

"No."

"No? Well then, why the hell do I want to extract myself from my currently comfortable situation over here?" John grumbled with an annoyed expression on his face, sticking his nose behind the pages of his crime novel again.

"John –" Sherlock sighed and began putting on his scarf and coat.

"Why do you want to go to the hospital at this hour if you don't have a case? Hospitals are not exactly open to random people roving the halls searching for a mystery because the criminals on the streets are boring."

"I know that. Now, are you coming?" He stood with hand on the door handle. He turned and raised his eyebrows a fraction, questioning. Silver sombre eyes locked onto liquid oceans that mirrored the inner core of the, frankly, rather tired doctor. "I said, **I**need to go to the hospital."

Instantly a volcano of understanding erupted in John's mind. A chasm of fear cracked, splitting his heart to the core. Fear – dark and horrible – spewed forth and all things comforting were sucked away into its insatiable depths.

John nodded. No words were required. His weariness forgotten, he rose from his chair. "Coming. Just let me get my coat." Shoulders back, army straight, strong and supportive. Regression into the military protective role gave him refuge from the inner turmoil just now.

John hated hospital. He was a doctor. He didn't hate them as a workplace. He hated them for what they represented. Hospitals were giant cacophonous machines that swallowed patients whole - living, walking humans entered their doors. If they were lucky, the same people might exit – scarred shells of their former selves seated numbly in wheelchairs at the kerb. It reminded John of the times he played miniature golf as a child. At the end of a round of putt-putt, the ball would roll merrily into the gaping jaws of some amusement contraption, perhaps the mouth of a giant plastic clown with a painted red and white leering grin. The ball never returned.

Hospitals ate people. No matter how artistic and modern the décor, there was no disguising the fact. Patients went in; skeletons were regurgitated – sometimes.

John clasped Sherlock's shoulder involuntarily as they entered through the revolving glass door. The experienced detective-patient has already made the admission arrangements with his long time specialist. They approached the front receptionist counter.

"Sherlock Holmes. Direct admission. Doctor Avery Cooper." The lanky dark haired man did not waste words.

The young brown haired receptionist clicked a few keys and studied her computer. "Right. Here you are. Room 204." She looked up at the patient. "Just let me call someone and they'll escort you to your room right away."

Her clipped professional tones sounded way too cheerful from John's sour perspective. He desperately wanted to reach out, grab his friend by the coat sleeves, and drag him away from all this. Instead, he stood resolutely next to his flatmate and handed him a tissue when the man started coughing uncontrollably.

Catching his breath at last, wiping his face, Sherlock sniffed in a vain attempt to ignore the unwanted side effects of his illness. He missed a smudge on his left cheek. John dared not mention it though. "Fine. I'm fine." Sherlock reassured no one in particular.

He sat down to wait for the orderly escort. John glanced down at this suddenly new side of Sherlock. Sherlock, the sick patient. For the briefest of seconds a shadow of fear flashed across the steely grey eyes. Just as quickly, the impassive, hard, mask snapped back in place. The trained, professional consulting detective became master, once more, of his emotions.

The clatter of an empty wheelchair echoed down the long corridor. Sherlock's lips parted as if he might speak. His eyes darted from the approaching orderly and back to John. When the doctor's attention was focused somewhere else, he tentatively mouthed the doctor's name, "John?" His body refused to utter the word out loud though.

John had the sensation of floating through another dimension, distracted as he was by his own thoughts. They melted and swirled around, drowning his heart in a sea of emotions. He paddled to keep his head above water. So much information to process all of a sudden. He swallowed and closed his eyes. He reached deep from inside past painful experiences and terrifying situations and flipped off the panic button. Deep breaths. One – two – three – four – five – six – seven- eight – nine – ten. His pulse slowed back to normal. He opened his eyes. His friend needed him to be here and support him. He would do that.

He gave a half smile of encouragement to Sherlock seated on the bench. Nothing would prevent him from being present for his friend – not even his own innate instincts of emotional self-preservation. He took a another slow deep breath and dove under the crashing waves of hospitalisation head first.

In spite of his less than ideal physical health, Sherlock managed a courtesy smile of recognition when the orderly arrived. "Mr Holmes," the young medical assistant smiled. "Good to see you. I mean," he fumbled with his words awkwardly, "I mean good to see you even though you're sick again." He glanced down at the wheelchair he pushed. "Sorry, man, hospital regulations. They won't let you guys wander up to the hospital wards on foot anymore."

Sherlock grimaced. Another coughing fit stopped any argument though and he fell into the chair faster than expected. "Sorry, Doc," the orderly looked at John standing nearby. "Awfully sorry. But you know, since you're not his physician you can't come." He shrugged his shoulders apologetically. "He can give you a call and you can visit after Dr Conner sees him and orders are sorted, ok?"

John nodded.

The orderly manoeuvred the wheelchair expertly in a 180-degree turn and rapidly disappeared back down the hall of the hospital. John watched Sherlock disappear from view. He hadn't felt so helpless since when he'd lain bleeding and dying in the war. That night, alone in the flat, he dreamt of big, slimy red monsters with evil grins, pointy teeth and hollow eyes. The monsters swallowed Sherlocks and spit out bones.

~221b~


	6. Ch 6: Confused

**Chapter 6: Confused**

_"I don't deserve a soul, yet I still have one. I know because it hurts."_

_― Douglas Coupland, The Gum Thief_

When John arrived at room 204 the next morning, donning mask and gown since Sherlock had garnered himself an isolation bed due to his condition, he opened the door with an odd sense of trepidation. The room was hospital standard. Although modern hospitals try to disguise their identity under fashionable faux-bamboo flooring and pastel prints plastered over sterile white walls, there was little chance of mistaking Sherlock's room for a bed and breakfast. In spite of the prominent hospital bed, metal railings and white sheets with crisp creases and sharply demarked corners tucked neatly under the mattress, situated in the middle of the room, it was the smell that assaulted his senses first. The human olfactory sense that bypasses our cortex and dives straight to the subconscious recesses of our memories. John could never forget it. Death, dying, and decay. He hated it.

"Good morning, John."

"Mycroft, good morning. Sorry, didn't notice you were here." John turned, surprised, to see the placid statue of Sherlock's older brother lounging in the visitor's vinyl chair pinioned in the far corner at the head of the bed. "How are you?"

"Fine, John. Though, of course, you can see that for yourself I assume."

"Why did you come?" Low tones, ghostly echoes of a familiar voice, crept out from under the white coverings, limping through the air, utilising every ounce of their strength, and breathless from their exertions.

"Sherlock?"

"Don't waste my oxygen levels," was the dark reply. "You clearly do not want to be here. You do not have any useful facts to impart." He paused to concentrate on breathing for a few moments. "So, why are you here?" A sinister bitterness that John had rarely heard except in connection with the most hateful of crimes saturated the question.

"I just, uh...came by to see how you're doing?"

"Well, I assume that although your powers of observation are not stellar, they are not under-average when it comes to hospitals and medicine." He pushed himself to a slightly more upright position and turned unnerving steely grey eyes upon the doctor, taking him off guard. "You can see I'm not doing well. OK? So now, if your curiosity is adequately satisfied, you can leave."

John's blue eyes swam awash in a confused spiral as he studied the shell of his flatmate. Face pinched and blank. It was if someone had extracted the detective's essence and left a hollow substitute in the bed. Was this really the genius that he'd solved countless cases with - chasing after desperate criminals, fighting the bad guy – full of vigour and life (ever sharp and sarcastic with his sparring words)? The typed letters on the plastic wristband that encircled the man's slender wrists clearly spelled out '_Holmes, Sherlock'. _

"Go." The voice was fading.

John glanced at Mycroft who'd not twitched a muscle since he'd entered. The impassive form merely gave the faintest hint of a nod.

"Go… please," these last words were more of a desperate plea than a command.

"OK. If that's what you want… I'm going." He began tearing off the flimsy isolation gown, snapping off his gloves as he exited the room. "I'll check on you later, perhaps when you're feeling better," he called over his shoulder.

"Don't bother," came the cold acrid reply.

"Shit! Sherlock. You ask me to come with you to the hospital and then you tell me to leave. I don't get you!

"That's because you're an idiot."

In spite of John's good intentions, subsequent hospital visits did not go over any better. Hurt, confused, and angry he finally gave up leaving Sherlock to enjoy his cocktail of antibiotics alone.

Eventually, Sherlock improved and was released from the hospital. As his physical condition improved, his impertinent deductions of his treatment team's private lives were increasingly verbalised. In fact, his specialist took the predictable increase in his patient's irritating personality as a marker of his healing. When the treatment teams' complaints reached a particular level, the specialist knew he could safely discharge Sherlock.

~221b~


	7. Ch 7: Fear

**Chapter 7: Fear**

_"Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like."_

_― Lemony Snicket_

"I see your back," John looked up from his laptop. "You're looking a bit better."

"You outdo yourself in your powers of observation today." Sherlock coughed and unfurled his scarf, extracting himself from his coat.

"And I observe that your mood hasn't improved." John continued to type.

"John," the detective leaned over and supported himself against the wall with his hand as he struggled though another coughing fit. He held up a finger to wait. At last, catching his breath, "John, before you get all sentimental on me, just forget it. Hospitalizations have always been a part of my life, and statistically they will continue to be for the rest of my existence. Though I can acknowledge their necessity, I have chosen to ignore those bits of my past. I do not dwell on them and I refuse to discuss them, with you, or anyone else for that matter. Please, do not bring them up in future conversations."

"Ok. Fine." John closed his laptop and stood up. "It's fine. Won't mention it again. Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to make myself a pot."

"Yea, sure." Sherlock changed into more comfortable and less glamorous clothing, wrapping himself in his favourite dressing gown tucking it around his far too thin frame more tightly as he flopped wearily onto the sofa. He closed his eyes blocking out any troublesome feelings he might accidently reveal to the one friend he valued above life itself. Was it really fair to John to continue being flatmates? He cursed his selfishness for clinging to such sentiment. His thoughts wandered back to an old childhood memory. He'd dissected and subsequently discarded his childhood teddy bear when he realised how attached he was to Boo bear.

"Shut up!" he screamed at the older children who were teasing him about carrying the stuffed animal in his backpack to school.

"Sherlock loves his teddy like a girl," they squealed and hustled away with echoing laughter upon their heels. Later, Sherlock calculated the risks versus benefits of continuing his childhood relationship with Boo. The liability was too great. He severed the relationship into bits of fluff and corduroy; black button eyes rolled under the bed and were lost forever. A dark satisfaction descended over him afterward. He'd triumphed. Destroyed Boo. Obliterated his fear.

~221b~


	8. Ch 8: Conflict

**Chapter 8: Conflict**

_"Make your choice, adventurous Stranger,_

_Strike the bell and bide the danger,_

_Or wonder, till it drives you mad,_

_What would have followed if you had."_

_― C.S. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew_

Sherlock noted with clinical precision each advancing step in their friendship. Alarm bells sounded in his mind as he realised how much John meant to him. He resolved to keep that knowledge to himself. Once this resolution weakened. That was in Dartmoor. "John, please, you were right. I don't have friends – just one…" he stopped before he gushed forth all sorts of silly flowery language. How did the blond doctor do it? Why did he every nerve impulse in his body ache for the man? It defied logic.

One day Sherlock was working on a particularly frustrating case. He'd been poring over the case file, bits of newsprint, and photos all night. One wall of the flat was an erratic collage of such paraphernalia tacked up in a pattern only Sherlock could discern. In addition to his wall decorations, he'd spent hours searching the web, gleaning anything that looked even remotely like a clue. Although he'd never admit it; he was tired. He knew his illness was gradually eating away his body but he refused to give in to such paltry excuses. He knew his time was short. He had an entire life to live in less than half the years that normal people typically utilised. He didn't have the luxury of sleeping. His work was marked by a frenetic intensity reminiscent of a supernova that glows particularly bright just before it's consumed.

"Sherlock!" John had stumbled bleary and half awake into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. "Sherlock, how could you?! I let you turn our kitchen table into a lab bench. I even tolerate your specimens you acquire from the morgue in our fridge. How many times have I told that the kettle is off limits?" The peeved doctor stared at the floating objects in the recently boiled kettle water. "I have no idea what they used to be…"

"My roaches!" Sherlock wailed in dismay. "You've boiled them! Why can't you be more observant? It'll take weeks to acquire another batch from my supplier in Madagascar."

"You're cockroaches?! What about my tea?" John retorted.

"Come on, John. My work is clearly the more important than your little spot of tea."

"Oh, why do I ever put up with you? I could easily find a much more sensible flatmate. One who doesn't keep eyeballs in the microwave, thumbs in the vegetable crisping bin, and bugs in the kettle."

An eerie pause descended upon them. John swore he felt the temperature drop audibly. Sherlock maintained that was scientifically impossible. Whatever the atmosphere's final temperature, Sherlock finally broke the ice.

"I wish you would - go away." His tone was cold, calculated, and callus.

"Fine." John stormed back up stairs, dressed, and exited 221B, intent on finding a new place to stay.

Sherlock couldn't concentrate on his case after that. "Forget it", he told himself. He retreated into his mind palace. But the ghost of John haunted him within the sacred halls of his memories in spite of all his efforts to expunge the man. Visions of polyester teddy bear stuffing and corduroy bits tortured his thoughts.

"What's wrong with you? You look worse than usual." Lestrade commented when he came by for an update on the case.

"Nothing," Sherlock deflected and proceeded to expound upon the criminal evidence currently at hand.

"Where's John?" The inspector finally queried.

"Gone out."

Lestrade had shaken his head. "It's not like him to leave you in the middle of a case like this."

"Why shouldn't he go out?" Sherlock replied defensively. "It's not like I'm married to the man."

"Whatever, mate." Lestrade threw up his hands. "Just making an observation."

"And an unnecessary one," Sherlock snapped. "I have work to do. Now leave, you are distracting me."

"Right. Text me with how things are going then. OK?" Lestrade edged his voice with a touch of warning; "if I don't hear anything from you by tomorrow I might find it necessary to send Anderson over to investigate."

Quiet descended upon the young troubled detective once the clatter of Lestrade's boots faded on the steps. Paradoxically, the noise in his head only grew louder. In fact, it was as if World War III had erupted in his cerebrum – emotion versus logic. It was a distinctly uncomfortable position to be the host for a battle of such grand proportions. And distracting, Sherlock discovered. He reclined himself on his favourite sofa, folded his hands, and closed his eyes against a raging headache.

_It's better this way. He will be happier without you. You don't deserve the man. He should be free to find a more human, and, er.., humane, partner. _

_No, no. He's Sherlock's reflector of light, his inspiration. Haven't you seen how his deductions are so much more rapid when John's around? Besides, John's happy. He even blogs about the cases (I admit, a touch over-dramatic but…) well, John needs the excitement and danger. _

_John can find better opportunities to fulfil his need for adrenaline. He's a liability. The chances of him being injured are statistically high. He interferes with your lifelong pursuit of scientific perfection. A disciplined mind. Controlled emotions. Caring is not an advantage. Let him go._

_I can't. I already care about him. _

_It's just a chemical reaction. Nothing more. Neutralize it. Let him go. _

_I don't want to._

_You're being unreasonable and selfish. Let him go._

_No._

_You must!_

"Shut up!" Sherlock screamed. He didn't care if Mrs Hudson heard. She was used to such outbursts. Ok. Usually these outbursts were in the company of some particularly infuriatingly obtuse police officer, not when he was by himself; but oh well, why did he care what his landlady thought?

The next morning, John found his former flatmate passed out on the sofa, syringe cradled beside his limp form.

John did a lot of thinking that morning while he sat quietly in reflective vigil. Around six o'clock that evening, Sherlock cracked his eyes open.

"Never, ever, do that again!" John stared at his new flatmate.

Sherlock caught John's gaze. "John, I need you."

"I know".

~221b~


	9. Ch 9: A Valuable Nonessential

**Chapter 9: A Valuable Nonessential**

_Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself (for God did not need to create). It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival."_

_― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves_

Life goes on. The daily cycle continues. Some days John nearly forgot. Some days the genius grated on his nerves to that point that he almost wished he'd disintegrate right then and there. Most of the time he was able to stuff the knowledge into the deep pockets of his memory and get on with living. He revelled in the danger and adrenalin that solving a case with Sherlock brought. In spite of the git's annoying quirks, he couldn't help falling for the eccentric consulting detective. Shooting the cabby in the abandoned schoolhouse was only the beginning of his loyalty.

It had been after a particularly thrilling case. The perpetrator had been brought to stand for his crimes at last following a mind boggling series of observations that Sherlock had pursued, linking the evidence together, clue by clue, forging the chain that at last brought them to the front steps of the leader in an organized group of drug smugglers. Thanks to Sherlock's brilliance, there'd be a considerable lack of cocaine on the black market for a while. John crooked a wry smile. In spite of his friend's weakening physical condition, his brilliance could still outrun the best of the criminals.

What are you smiling about?" Sherlock was prancing around the living room in his post-exhilaration euphoria, caught up in recounting the details of his deductions. He idled momentarily to hear John's answer.

"Oh, nothing."

"Oh, come on, John." The perceptive flatmate gave a disdainful toss of his curls. "Don't insult my intelligence. I know it's not 'nothing'. We've known each other long enough that you realise I'll never let you get away with such a boring reply." Sherlock flopped down into his favourite chair and sprawled out like a gangly spider each appendage pointed in a different direction. Only Sherlock could be comfortable in such a contortion.

John's smile broadened and the sparkle in his blue orbs was partially hidden when the corners of his eyes crinkled upward. "You are such a goof, you know that?"

"Yea, yea. A goof, a freak, a git, and a genius, etc. etc." he waved a languid hand impatiently brushing aside all the labels. "You're stalling and ignoring my original question."

"You're right, but only partly. I'm not ignoring your question. Just giving myself a few moments to compose an answer."

Sherlock shifted and settled down a bit more into his chair and looked up expectantly at his friend. What did he ever do that fates had conceded to allow John into his life?

"Well, I was thinking – "

"Good to hear you think every now and then," the detective smirked.

"Yes, thanks, Sherlock." He steepled his hands together and leaned back in his chair. "Anyway, I was thinking about all the cases we - by we, I mean mostly you." He opened his eyes briefly in Sherlock's direction and paused, remembering. "My life is so different than when I first met you. Lost." He stopped, searching for the right words.

For once Sherlock kept silent.

John shook his head. "Lost without hope of ever finding a purpose in life again. I'd been stripped of my health and my dignity. The promising military career I'd envisioned for myself had evaporated in the face of my battle injuries. I was messed up –physical and mental."

"A captain without an army," Sherlock muttered, more to himself, from across the room.

"A captain without anyone. I seriously doubted whether I'd ever be happy again. Hope was but a distant mirage – something that flaunted her glittering jewels at me from a far off distance in my dreams. I didn't have a chance of ever catching her."

"Happiness is overrated," Sherlock huffed in distain.

"Thanks, Sherlock. There's nothing wrong with seeking happiness but I understand what you're implying. So anyway, not to get all mushy and sentimental and risk of boring you to death, I was smiling because I'm happy for our friendship. It's changed my life." The contemplative partner opened his eyes, misted over in tenderness, "Thanks, Sherlock."

The reclining figure gave one solemn nod. Volumes could be filled with the amount of feeling that was infused into that one-shared moment.

~221b~


	10. Ch 10: Dying

**Chapter 10: Dying**

_"And it is you, spirit-with will and energy, and virtue and purity-that I want, not alone with your brittle frame."_

_― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre_

Death is not like in the movies, accompanied by drama, last minute gasping of unforgettable insights, thunder and lightning choreographed to the dying breath. No, dying is much more gentle, and, dare I say it, boring?

"Haven't I told you before, 'breathing's boring'?" Sherlock managed a grim smile at his miserable attempts of humour. "I don't want to be on a ventilator when the end comes. As for artificial feedings – well, you know my feelings regarding food…." His voice trailed off.

John smiled. Sort of. It was hard to smile and cry at the same time. Oh Hell! His mind could barely comprehend the events of the last few days. Events had come tumbling and crashing down with greater rapidity than he'd imagined.

"Oh, come, don't look at me like that. I'm the one dying, idiot." The term had taken on a different meaning between them. A stranger might be appalled at how often the, by now, famous detective called his partner, 'idiot'. They laughed about in private.

"Yea, I know," John blinked up at his best friend, only vaguely aware of Mycroft and Sherlock's specialist hovering around. He turned away. "Why?" he looked down for some semblance of privacy as unwanted tears clouded his vision. He managed to refrain from punching the wall but just barely, his fists balled into two white stones, hard but numb.

"John," Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry. But we both knew…"

It was true. They both knew.

~221b~


	11. Ch 11: Visitors

**A/N: Life and death is a bit more messy and complex than we humans would like to admit. More often than not, we don't know the answers.**

**Chapter 11: Visitors**

_"I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I don't know the answer"_

_― Douglas Adams_

"No one can predict for sure how much longer…" the specialist's soothing tones faded as he discussed the details of Sherlock's treatment and prognosis with Mycroft. Mycroft, silent and thoughtful, always the strong rock in the face of impending emotional storm. He wasn't lying when he'd met Watson in the abandoned warehouse long ago. " I worry about him – constantly."

* * *

John and Mycroft, along with the home care attendant, did their best to help him maintain a semblance of dignity when the others stopped by the flat.

"I don't want visitors. Miserable creatures with flimsy masks of concern, guilt-riddled, spouting forth false platitudes and pretending to be happy. Simply hateful!" Sherlock spat the words out as if describing the maddening political red tape that had frustrated more than one investigation. "No. Never." He closed his eyes against further arguments to the contrary.

"Lestrade already knows about your condition. He just doesn't know how serious it is this time. He's not exactly the overly sentimental type anyway."

Silence.

"He deserves to know in case he has any remaining questions about the last case we've been working with the Yard on," John choked on his words. 'last case'. He swallowed hard. He didn't need to turn into one of those weeping sentimental fools now. Sherlock was right. He wasn't the one dying. It was the other way around…or was it? His mind catapulted forward and he doubled over forward, clutching his gut. He concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths and finally managed to lock up the sorrow that threatened to spoil his intentions.

~221b~


	12. Ch 12: Living

**Chapter 12: Living**

_"You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough."_

_― Mae West_

"Yes, I knew this day would come eventually. Of course, I'd always secretly imagined that his strong spirit might ward off the inevitable." Mrs Hudson dabbed the corners of her eyes with the handkerchief that Mycroft has given her as he discussed the arrangements. Somewhere, the remarkable landlady surprised everyone and became the pillar of practical support that Sherlock and John required. She never wavered in her care and concern for the pair. If she cried, she did it in the privacy of her apartment.

"Now behave yourself, young man," she admonished as she stood in the doorway, headed downstairs to her abode to get a bit of much needed sleep. "I don't care how bad you feel, you are not to shoot a frowning face into my walls." She waggled a finger at her sick tenant.

Sherlock rewarded the last comment with a brief smirk.

* * *

"Goodnight, brother, see you in the morning." Mycroft spoke the words in spite of his acute awareness that such might not be the case. What did they have but a façade of normalcy now though? They all knew the truth; there was no reason for melodramatics. He'd always strove to help his younger brother live a normal life. Why quit now?

~221b~


	13. Ch 13: More Than Words

**A/N: Because music speaks louder than words, listen to ****_Les Friction "Save Your Life_****" (can find on youtube). It conveys the essence of this chapter. **

* * *

**Chapter 13: More Than Words**

_"Music is an outburst of the soul."_

_― Frederick Delius_

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John looked up from his typing.

"Will you stay with me tonight?"

"Of course," John tried to minimise the shock that registered on his face. The man had barely let him in his hospital room during his admissions. They each had their own private bedrooms for a reason. Now he was asking John to sit with him through the night.

"I don't want to be alone anymore." Sherlock answered John's unspoken query.

"You haven't been alone for a very long time, you idiot." John said softly. (In retrospect, it was at this point that John claims his heart broke completely in two).

Sherlock's breathing calmed and his muscles relaxed. The detective dreamed of one of the last cases he and John had investigated. The brilliance of their work would go down in the annuals of police history as one of the greatest successes of the century.

* * *

"Impossible. Even, you, Sherlock, with all your genius, can't help us on this case." Lestrade scrubbed his hands through his hair in frustration. He stared at the offending file with its meagre information. Too little to mount a proper investigation.

Sherlock grabbed the file far too eagerly. "Out of your league, again, inspector? Every criminal eventually makes a mistake. However small and insignificant it may seem at the time." He briefly glanced over at the weary Lestrade. "Good to see that you and your wife are back together again. I'd refrain from so much hair pulling though. No need to rush the inevitable alopecia that genetics has predestined for your future."

"How?... oh never mind," Lestrade shook his head. But, he refrained from running his hand through his hair again.

He took another sip of coffee. "If by some miracle you catch the perpetrator, or perpetrators, it will most certainly be the crowning point in your professional career." He gave a crooked grin. "Might even land you a knighthood compliments of Mycroft."

"My brother has already tried to bestow such a dubious honour on me – twice!" The tall detective tossed the file back on the desk as if it had suddenly morphed into a book of romantic poetry. "Not interested!"

John shared a knowing look with Lestrade and hurried after the rapidly disappearing black-cloaked figure with flying coattails. The insulted consulting brain was stalking resolutely toward the exit. No one dared impede his way.

"Sherlock, wait!"

The receding man refused to acknowledge the call. John rushed to catch up and finally came in stride with the younger man as they reached the doors. "You didn't look at the case file," he panted.

Sherlock fixed his partner with a glare sharp enough to skewer the entire pile of complaint letters the Yard received regarding his indiscrete revelations in one strong jab of a jack-knife. "I do not 'look'; I observe, John," he stated with cold precision.

Undeterred, John continued. "Yes, you may observe, but did you smell?"

A moment of hesitation crossed the other man's features.

"It positively stank of Moriarty. His scent is all over this case."

That was enough. Sherlock took the case. And, Sherlock and John solved the case. (Moriarty was more than a little 'put out').

That evening the successful detective picked up his violin and cradled it in under his chin, running the bow expertly over the strings, letting the notes float off the instrument in a cascade that soared around the living room, shedding haunting melodies that danced and swirled enchantingly, daring one to embrace both the light and dark and the all the colours of the vast universe in between. The passions of humanity flew into the air with a concentration that made the hairs on John's body stand on end. The violinist, the maestro, a man who eschewed emotion, composed a sonnet that no language on earth could translate. Low, rumbling black tones of unmentionable sorrow collided with dazzling sparks of adrenaline-charged excitement; staccato flashes of passionate red swirled in perfect balance with calmer measures of green. The sheer intensity of life dusted the notes with a shimmering sparkle. Buried within the musical kaleidoscope, so subtle that only the most astute listener would notice, was an echoing yearning – a desperate longing - reaching, grasping, pleading - melting the notes that it touched, moulding them into tears. John found himself holding his breath, captivated by this personal concert. The music wrapped around him, again and again in a dizzying array of light and sound. For a brief interval the veil between the spiritual and physical worlds floated aside. He glimpsed a universe of endless immensity but with such precision that the just one small piece influenced the fate of the whole.

At last Sherlock came to the end of his concert. He returned his violin and bow to its case reverentially. The glowing embers of musical notes hung silent, suspended in the misty-musical air. Neither spoke for several minutes – each lost in their own personal thoughts.

"John," Sherlock was the first to speak. "I know you think I don't believe in God, a higher Power, or whatever sticker people are applying to that which is not yet understood."

John nodded.

"And yet," he paused in a rare reflective mood, "I cannot deny the existence of something that I suspect will remain a mystery to me. I have disciplined my mind to resist all forms of sentiment that might cloud my reason and impede my work. All my life I've striven for control, especially control over my emotions. My brother has always taught me that caring is not an advantage. And, up until I met you, I'd agreed. For, when one cares deeply for someone or something, unavoidably fear follows. Love makes one vulnerable to anguish – heartache directly proportional to the enormity of that love. It's an inescapable principle of the cosmos."

"I tried to get rid of you for that reason. Logically it made sense. To purge away a sentimental flaw. To rid myself of my Achilles' heel that my enemies (my work generates plenty) might use against me.

"I remember," John assented with a rueful grin at the awkward attempts each had pushed the other away. "I'm glad both of us have been blessed with a particularly stubborn streak."

Sherlock gave a wry smile in return. "Stubborn streak – more like a tsunami of tenacity."

Sherlock glanced in the direction of his violin. "I never used to be able to compose music like that. My teachers used to complain that I was too stiff and uptight. I remember Mrs P pleading with me to 'let the notes flow through me and feel the music'. I couldn't understand what she was talking about." His eyes quirked with a fleeting mischievous twinkle. He gave a trace shrug of his slender shoulders. "Figured she was just another illogical idiot. Technically my playing was flawless. My timing - my notes - were perfect. I just could never seem to infuse that finishing flourish, the passionate polish, that every great musician possesses."

He got up, stretched, and crossed over to the mantelpiece. He reached out a hand and picked up his skull. He studied it momentarily while a milieu of equally indecipherable expressions flashed across his face. His eyes took on a far away look as he as spun through visions from the past and premonitions of the future. Gently he placed his faithful, bony friend back in its honoured position. "Love is more than a chemical reaction. It defies my logic. I cannot see it. I can see its effects. It remains an unsolvable puzzle to me. " He turned toward John. " I'm not sorry for it either."

Abruptly he hopped over the sofa and perched in front of the window. "Well, anyway, I don't need to run the risk of damaging my reputation with more philosophy." He gazed out at the world passing by on the London streets below and fingered his mobile. "That night I said, 'I need you,'... His voice trailed off to a whisper. "It's more than need."

After a pause he finally looked back at John. "Life is rather pointless. You've introduced me to something greater. I suspect, that this thing, this thing we have between us, will be something I'll never completely understand. And strangely, " he cocked his head to the side contemplating for a second, "I'm content with that unknown. In fact, I'm grateful. Thank you."

John rubbed his chin and made sure his lower jaw was still connected to his face. He wondered if he'd looked like one of those cartoon animals when their bottom mandible falls with a clang to floor upon a sudden surprise.

The night with Sherlock and his violin was burned eternally into John's cerebrum. Sherlock tucked the memory away in one of the most decadently decorated rooms of his mind-palace – the one that contained his Altar of Reason.

~221~


	14. Ch 14: I Want You

**Chapter 14: I Want You. Don't Leave Me.**

_"As if you were on fire from within….The moon lives in the lining of your skin."_

_― Pablo Neruda_

That last night, well, how can one sum up such in one word? To the rest of the world, the night was rather uneventful. John's clinical intuition informed him his friend had hours, not days to live. His heart's intuition told him not to leave his friend's side. He pulled up his chair and held Sherlock's long, frigid fingers in his own. Sherlock's breaths were shallow, more rapid. Mercifully though, he was not longer coughing. Despite his best efforts, John couldn't keep the frail form of his friend warm. The pale face became even paler, if that was possible. His lips, in spite of the oxygen that hissed rhythmically, were a dusky purple. It didn't matter anymore, really.

"John?"

"I'm here," he reassured the dying detective.

"You know, it's rather ironic. I've dedicated my entire life to science, logic, and detection. In the end, it's not my work that comforts."

"Ironic, huh?" John tried to smile, only partly successful at the attempt.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John squeezed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger. He couldn't imagine never hearing that voice say his name. His stomach twisted into a cold lead-filled knot. Heavy and hollow.

"Have you ever been sorry that you chose to stay? I mean, in spite of all the mistakes I've made, I have but one regret."

''What's that?"

"John, don't be such an idiot. Do I need to spell out everything?"

"Probably," the doctor murmured softly as he gazed into the man's steel grey eyes, soaking in his soul, drowning in its depths.

"I regret that I must leave you. I regret the pain my death will cause you. I regret that we won't be together anymore."

"Shusssh… it's ok, you git. Besides that's three in case you're forgetting how to count already. Even the most amazing genius, the best consulting detective that ever walked the face of the world, can't avoid the inevitable."

"I still wish it was the other way around," he whispered.

"When I first met you, I knew the consequences. I don't regret my decision. I'd choose you all over again… every day and every second. With every breath that I have left I will always choose you."

"John?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Now you're starting to get all sentimental. You know I'm not good at this emotional thing."

John sat up a little and sniffed, rubbing his sleeve against his nose. "Right. Too much sentiment even when you're dying." He grinned affectionately at his friend.

"Just because I'm dying doesn't mean all my reasoning faculties melt into a sticky syrupy goo and I suddenly become 'Mr 'I'm-in-touch-with-my-emotions kind of guy'". A low chuckle rumbled through his chest.

John could feel the vibration. "Are you laughing on your deathbed? You're impossible!" He couldn't help cracking a smile.

"Hush," Sherlock teased. "We can't giggle. It's my deathbed."

At this, John's smile broke into outright laughter. "You, oh, you… " He searched for the right word. "You're fantastic, you know."

"I know."

Suddenly Sherlock gave a gasp. He gulped like a fish out of water helplessly flailing for more oxygen. He pressed the patient-controlled button for more drugs.

"Sherlock?" John asked, alarmed.

"I'm fine," Sherlock finally managed to choke out. His eyes were wide and frightened though. John had never seen them full of such fear.

"It's ok. I'm not leaving you." John grasped his friend's hands in his own, willing all his strength into the rapidly deteriorating body of his friend. He hung onto each fibre of his companion with everything his soul possessed.

"Thank you," Sherlock mouthed the words.

John nodded, willing the tears that threatened to stay their distance. He wouldn't cry in front of Sherlock. That was the last thing his friend needed.

Sherlock's gaze grabbed onto John's face with a resolve born of a drowning desperation. He clung to that look with an intensity wrapped up in lifetime.

John continued to hold his friend's hands. He forced the love that threatened to burst his heart to migrate into his face, silently caring with an affection born of a friendship neither had ever experienced before. "It's ok, Sherlock. You don't have to fight anymore. It's time to catch up on all those sleepless nights."

Grey eyes plumbed the depths of blue eyes. A faint nod. His face relaxed. The fear flowed away and was replaced with a calm John had never quite seen before. His eyelids closed. His breathing slowed. Reflecting back, John found it difficult to describe. "He was at peace, " was what he finally settled on when others asked how the detective had passed away.

John lay with his friend, never letting go of his hands, never stopping his vigil far into the night. Gradually the intervals between his breaths lengthened. They became more erratic and uneven. And sometime in the night they ceased altogether.

John, resting his head against the detective's chest, lulled by the slow throb of his heartbeat and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, noticed first the stillness. It was not death, but rather the absence of life, that alerted him to Sherlock's demise.

His best friend was dead. Only then did he let the emotional floodgates open up. Grief gushed over him and tears welled up in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. He sobbed silently. There was no response from the limp body of the former consulting detective.

_"Patient seen and examined. Pupils fixed and dilated. No heartbeat detected. No breath sounds auscultated. No response to external stimuli. Patient pronounced dead…." _

Before the inevitable mechanisms that must occur when someone dies were set in motion, John climbed into Sherlock's bed and curled himself around the empty form of his friend. "Goodbye, Sherlock," he whispered. "Thank you for being my friend." He touched the damp, shiny curls. "And thank you for showing me the way when I was lost."

The butterfly beats her wings in Toronto and a hurricane forms in London. Quantum physics. Two streams of light particles, careening at 299, 792, 458 meters per second through space, convened, crossed, collided, and cracked asunder. The light was deafening. The silence blinding. Goodbye. John cried.

~221b~


	15. Ch 15: Grief

**A/N: I'm not a psychiatric therapist. I was just following Mrs Hudson's lead. I assumed she'd been around long enough to impart a bit of true wisdom.**

**Chapter 15: Grief**

_Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape."_

_― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed_

For the next several weeks, John felt numb. He shed a few tears at the funeral. But his core just couldn't seem to wrap itself around the fact this Sherlock was gone.

"It's as if he's just disappeared on one of his prolonged investigations. I keep expecting him to walk into the living room one evening and find him sprawled all over the sofa, bored and begrudging the criminal classes because they haven't been clever recently," he admitted to Mrs Hudson. "I feel a bit guilty for not being properly sorrowful."

Mrs Hudson nodded sympathetically and handed him a cup of tea. "Sit down, dear." She indicated the chair in opposite her in the tiny kitchen breakfast nook. "Give yourself some time. There's no formula for grief. It's not something that marches forward at a predictable pace. It's fickle. It twists and turns in unexpected phases, repeats itself, and spins you in circles sometimes. Accept the feelings as they come."

She patted his hand comfortingly and poured her own cup of tea. "You're going to have your good days; and then you're going to have those bad days. Sometimes you'll cry for what seems like no reason. That's normal." She looked back up at the blond haired doctor and gave a small-embarrassed smile. "I know you know all this, dear. You're a doctor after all. It's just, well, maybe what I'm telling you can verify what you already know in that head of yours."

"Thank you Mrs Hudson," John replied sincerely. "It's different when the loss is personal."

She nodded. Her eyes, wise with the experiences of time, welled with tears.

Of course, Mrs Hudson was right in her predictions. John has his good days and his bad ones.

"It hurts in a way I can't explain," John confessed to Inspector Lestrade one day. "He permeated every pore of my life and now he's gone. I feel his absence in every crack and corner of my existence. It's like a blanket that used to cover me has been whisked away. Some days I feel so cold. So alone."

~221b~


	16. Ch 16: One Plus One Does Not Equal Two

**Chapter 16: One Plus One Does Not Equal Two**

"_If we have souls, they're made of the love we share. Undimmed by time, unbound by death." _

_– Oblivion: Underpowered_

When two friends, such as John and Sherlock connect, even death itself cannot separate them completely. Oh, this is not a phenomenon Sherlock would be able to prove in his scientific laboratory. John can't explain it medically. Yet somehow, when two people love each as much as they did, bits of their souls fuse. When Sherlock died, a piece of him remained in John. Just as a piece of John died with Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I miss you."

"Sentiment?"

"Well, yes – but…."

"John, didn't I say there was something you shared with me that I couldn't understand? Something greater – outside finite comprehension?"

"Um, yes…"

"That something is love."

"So?"

"Don't be an idiot, John. Love never dies. That thing – that thing that we had together – well, that 'thing' is still there."

"Oh." John was silent, thinking in the darkness of his bedroom for a few moments. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"People are really going to talk now."

"No, they won't talk this time, John. They'll write."

~221b~

**"And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love." 1 Corinthians 13:13**

The End


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